Page 57 of Drop Dead Gorgeous

The same stick-thin woman as before came to greet me, her smile chilling a bit as she took in my jeans and lightweight sweater. “Yes, may I help you?”

No way out of it, I had to talk—whisper, rather. “I’m Blair Mallory. I left my card day before yesterday, but Ms. Stevens hasn’t called.” I saw her expression as she drew back a little, as if I were contagious. “Yes, I have severe laryngitis. No, you can’t catch it. My house burned down yesterday morning and this is from smoke inhalation, which means I’m not in a great mood so I’d really like to see Monica. Now, if possible.”

That was a lot to say, and even whispering was a strain. I was scowling by the time I finished. I didn’t like that woman.

Strangely enough, she brightened at the news that my house had burned down. It took me a moment before I realized she knew a new house and all new furniture meant redecorating. I wondered if she scoured the newspapers looking for news of house fires, the way shady lawyers looked for car accidents.

She led me through the store into the back, where the offices were set up. Back here the feel was completely different; huge books holding swatches of fabric were stacked helter-skelter, different pieces of furniture were jumbled together, framed art leaned against walls. I actually liked this better; this was where work was done. There was energy here, instead of the coldly stylized feel of the front showroom.

The woman knocked on an office door, and at an invitation from within, pushed the door open. “Ms. Stevens, this is Blair Mallory,” she said, as if she were introducing me to Queen Elizabeth. “She has laryngitis because her house burned down yesterday—smoke inhalation, you know.” With that tantalizing tidbit, she returned to the showroom and left us alone.

I’d never met Monica Stevens before, though I’d heard about her. In a way she was what I expected, but in a way she wasn’t. She was fortyish, with sleek black hair in a dramatic, asymmetrical cut—thin, stylish in a studied way, with noisy bangle bracelets on both wrists. I like bangle bracelets only if I’m the one wearing them. Hey, it’s different when you’re the annoyer instead of the annoyed.

“I’m so sorry about your house,” she said, and her voice had a warm tone that made her seem more approachable. What I hadn’t expected about her was the friendly expression in her eyes.

“Thank you,” I said, whispered, and pulled Jazz’s invoices from my tote, placing them in front of her before I sat down.

She looked at the invoices, puzzled, then read the name. “Mr. Arledge,” she said in her warm voice. “He was a darling man, so anxious to surprise his wife. I loved working with him.”

There hadn’t been any working “with” Jazz, who had zero sense of style or decoration. Jazz had given her carte blanche, signed the check, and that was it. “His marriage broke up because of this,” I said baldly.

She looked stunned. “But…why?”

“His wife loved her bedroom the way it was. She hates the new style and refuses to even sleep in the room. She’s so furious at him for getting rid of her antiques, she tried to hit him with her car.”

“Oh my God. You’re joking. She doesn’t like that room? But it’s gorgeous!”

She hadn’t even blinked an eye at hearing Sally had tried to maim Jazz, but she was honestly disbelieving that anyone could not like her creations.

Wow. I admire alternate reality as much as anyone, but there’s such a thing as too much disconnect.

“I’m trying to save this marriage,” I said. All of this whispering was really, really beginning to be a strain. “Here’s what I want you to do: go pick up that furniture and put it in your consignment shop, or, since it’s never been used, sell it again as new. Technically it may not be, but since you never got the final approval on the job I’d say it’s still ongoing.”

She stiffened. “What do you mean?”

“I mean the client isn’t happy with the job.”

“I’ve received complete payment, so I’d say he was.” Her cheeks were turning red.

“Jazz Arledge is a babe in the woods when it comes to decorating. He knows nothing about it. You could have nailed skunk hides to the walls and he wouldn’t have known to protest. Idon’tthink you deliberately took advantage of him, and Idothink you’re a smart enough businesswoman to see the advantage in redoing this bedroom, but this time working with Mrs. Arledge, who is miserably unhappy.”

She regarded me thoughtfully. “Explain, please.”

I waved my hand toward the showroom. “Your reputation precedes you. People who like the modern avant garde look love your work, but potential customers who go for a more traditional look don’t come to you because they think you don’t do that kind of work.”

“Of course I do,” she said automatically. “The look isn’t what I prefer, it isn’t my signature style, but my ultimate goal is to please my client.”

I beamed at her. “That’s very good to hear. By the way, I don’t believe I’ve mentioned that my mother is Mrs. Arledge’s best friend. She’s in real estate, so maybe you’ve heard of her. Tina Mallory?”

Comprehension crept into her eyes. Mom’s a former Miss North Carolina, and she sells a lot of real estate. If Mom started recommending Monica, the business potential could be enormous.

She reached for a sketch pad, and with remarkable memory swiftly sketched out Sally’s bedroom. She worked quickly, colored pencils flying across the sheet. “What do you think of this?” she asked, turning the pad around so I could see what she’d done.

The look was richly comfortable, with color in the fabrics, and the furniture warm with wood. “I remember those antiques,” she said. “They were wonderful quality; I can’t replace them, but I can probably find one or two smaller, really good pieces that will give the same feel.”

“Mrs. Arledge would love it,” I said. “But I’ll warn you up front that Jazz isn’t willing to pay another penny. He’s very bitter about the whole experience.”

“He’ll feel differently when I’m finished,” she said, smiling. “And I won’t lose a penny on this, I promise you.”

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